


Conductor of Light

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inspired By Tumblr, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:59:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the following <a href="http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/post/150183307772/au-where-everythings-the-same-but-john-wears-a">tumblr prompt</a> from weeesi's "au where everything's the same but..." <a href="https://weeesi.tumblr.com/tagged/au-where-everything%27s-the-same-but">prompt series</a>:</p><p>anonymous asked: AU where everything's the same but John wears a T-shirt with Conductor of Light printed on the front in every episode since Hounds of Baskerville.</p><p>weeesi answered: awwwww?!?!! Sherlock has it specially made for him as kind of a joke but John is really proud of it and wears it constantly</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conductor of Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weeesi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/gifts), [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).



 

After The Fall, everything changes. 

 

At first, John can't wear it publicly, because he feels like he let Sherlock down, that it’s his fault, that he wasn’t enough for Sherlock, in the end. But he sleeps in it, every night. It’s the only way he can get any sleep in the long, empty, lonely months that follow. He wears it and remembers a time when he was important, when he mattered, when his life meant something. 

 

Once the media circus has died down and #ibelieveinsherlockholmes begins popping up on tube station and overpass walls, John starts wearing the shirt during the day again. Not all the time, but sometimes. He always wears it safely secreted under a button down, but just knowing it’s there, the faded words pressed over his heart, gives him that extra boost on days when he can hardly gather the strength to get out of bed. He’ll roll out of bed and look down at his chest, and can’t bear to take it off, not today. 

 

When he starts writing up the old cases, he always dons the shirt. If he tries to write otherwise, he ends up staring at a blinking cursor and blank screen. But when he’s wearing the shirt, the words just seem to flow, pouring out of him with a life of their own, vivid and real in a way that makes him feel like no time has passed at all, like Sherlock is still there, like maybe he just popped out for an illicit smoke or to rustle up some leads from his homeless network and he’ll burst through the door any minute with a bag of takeaway and a mischievous grin. He finds himself delaying the moment when he presses the post button, checks his email first and makes himself a cuppa, just to prolong that feeling of possibility a few precious minutes more. 

 

By the time Sherlock returns, the shirt is threadbare and worn, soft and almost translucent in places from countless washings and endless wear. There are constellations of tiny holes dotting the seams and the hem is frayed and the neck is so stretched out that John’s collarbones are completely exposed, along with a generous tuft of chest hair. Mary teases him about it relentlessly, so he’s taken to hiding it in the back of his sock drawer, under the stash of lone singles that he can never quite bring himself to throw out. Sometimes he goes a full week without wearing it, but on nights when he can’t sleep, he slips out of bed, careful not to wake Mary, and quietly retrieves the shirt. He brings it to the sofa, sometimes putting it on, sometimes just curling up with it. When he feels sleep start to overtake him, he returns to bed, drifting off with the shirt balled up under his pillow.

 

When Sherlock returns, he is furious, at the man who let him grieve but also at himself, for being such a sentimental fool. He tosses the shirt in the box of mementos that Greg gave him that horrible, horrible day, and vows to never wear it again.

 

Of course, he forgives Sherlock, in the end. He never really had a choice. 

 

Sentimental fool that he is, he digs the shirt out again for his stag night, and puts it on under his button down and jumper, not entirely sure why, but it feels right. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything, it’s not like Sherlock will see it (will he?) though he wonders if Sherlock can deduce it. If he does, he doesn’t say anything. John tries not to be disappointed about that. The next day he returns it to the box in the back of his closet, and if his fingers linger a moment too long on the soft, beloved fabric, at least no one is there to witness it.

 

He doesn’t touch the box again until he moves back to Baker Street.

 

It gets stacked in the lorry with all the rest of the detritus of his life, most of it bound for the donation centre, only the small collection of boxes in the back corner making it to the final stop. His last stop, John hopes. The only place he wants to call home again; the only place that ever truly felt like home. 

 

Sherlock actually gets off his arse to help haul John’s meagre possessions up to 221b, three boxes haphazardly stacked in his arms, and it’s only when John sees the topmost box teeter precariously as Sherlock reaches the landing that John recognises it, knows with a sinking certainty what’s inside. He watches it fall in slow motion, unable to stop it, unable to breathe, let alone move, watches it tumble and spill its contents into the entry of the flat. They both stare at the crumpled up bit of worn cotton for a long moment, before John drops his boxes and scurries to hide the incriminating evidence, quickly shoving the shirt back into the box of mementos of a life he had tried for so long to let go of, but could never forget.

 

He doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eye, and hurriedly escapes to the upstairs bedroom to stash the box under the bed. His bed, he supposes. When he returns downstairs, the rest of his boxes are stacked neatly in the sitting room, and Sherlock is tuning his violin. John feels absurdly grateful for the relative silence as he moves the rest of his belongings upstairs, a sparse plucked out melody keeping him company, soothing his jangled nerves.

 

They don’t talk about it, hardly say another word to each other all evening, but the next morning, John finds a brand new shirt neatly folded on the kitchen table, emblazoned with those transcendent words: Conductor of Light.

 

With slightly shaking hands, he picks it up. He looks around, but Sherlock is nowhere in sight. He takes a deep breath, then strips off his tee in a quick, fluid motion, exchanging it for the treasure in his hands. He gazes down at his chest, touches a finger to the familiar words freshly reborn in brilliant new ink, and feels a warm glow radiating out. He looks up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, a small smile tugging at his lips, clad in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt adorned with the words: Lost Without My Blogger.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this to AO3, but Locky said she wanted to podfic it, so I figured I'd give it a proper home first, and write a short intro for the recording. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Conductor of Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8132383) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)
  * [[Cover Art] for Conductor of Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171989) by [IamJohnLocked4art (IamJohnLocked4life)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4art)




End file.
